


Five Times Gene Hunt Imagined Alex Drake, and One Time He Didn't Have To

by JaneTurenne



Category: Ashes to Ashes
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneTurenne/pseuds/JaneTurenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's in his head from the first day they meet, and no matter how much his attitudes change, she could never really leave him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Gene Hunt Imagined Alex Drake, and One Time He Didn't Have To

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for slut-shaming, misogynist language and outlook.
> 
> Gene is a misogynist. I am not. His attitudes and language do not reflect my own personal views, but I wouldn't be writing him as Gene if I left that side of his personality out. If that makes you uncomfortable, then best steer clear.
> 
> Beta thanks to tardiscrash.

**1)**

The first time, he’s just thinking about getting his hands on everything she’s hiding under that scrap of a dress, and most of the bits it leaves dangling out in the cold.

She can’t expect a man not to look at her like a whore, not if she wants to go around dressing like one. Especially not the way she acts, posh as you please, the kind of tart could look up at a man with his cock between those red, red lips and make him feel like _somebody_. Woman like that could make a man feel like she’s worth the fortune he won’t have the next day, like he deserves the very best.

He doesn’t feel a minute’s guilt about it. The day having a wank over a DI with tits like _that_ becomes a crime, Gene promises himself he’ll hang up his badge, and join up with the bastards he’s spent his life putting away.

**2)**

Somewhere along the line, sooner than he’d have thought possible, it becomes about wanting to shut her bloody _up_ for sodding once.

No. No, that’s not right. He doesn’t want to shut her up. He just wants to stop her from _talking_. Just because she doesn’t _ever_ do as she’s told doesn’t make it any worse a mouth she does her smarting off with, and he’d like to see it put to _proper_ use for once. She loves the sound of her own voice—he can’t imagine that would change once the knickers come off. He wonders if she’d make those little whining, kitten noises, like some women do, higher and louder the wetter he made her. He wonders what it’d take to make her scream. He wonders how much _more_ it would take, to make her scream his name.

He’s not hurting a single soul, he tells himself, as he cleans himself up. And nineteen days out of twenty, by the time he sees her again the next morning, he’s able to make himself believe it.

**3)**

It starts to worry him some, when he realizes how much it’s become about wanting to _own_ her.

He’s heard the same lines time after time from the scum he drags in, men who beat their women, hurt them, kill them. _She were mine. Weren’t nobody else’s business. She were_ mine. Filthy, stinking slime he’s always thought them, the lowest kind of rot, the sort of crawling maggots that make decent men sick to their stomach. Except that when Alex Drake flirts with other men, there’s glowing coals inside his gut, and when someone else makes her laugh, he wants to bloody their faces, and when she looks at him like he just might have a chance, he wants to fuck her so good and hard she promises she’ll never look at anyone else again. He wants to hold her hips so tight he turns them purple, and pound and pound and pound into her until she can’t think a single one of her over-educated ideas, only _Gene, Gene_ , him and nothing else inside her skull.

These days, he thinks sourly, he feels so low when he’s done with himself that he may as well not bother at all.

**4)**

He only realizes how good he had it before once it starts being about wanting to make her trust him.

He can’t take the way she looks at him now, like she doesn’t know who he is anymore. He wants to prove himself to her like he hasn’t to anyone since he was a stupid tosser of a kid. He wants to wine and dine her, take her coat and pull out chairs and make his Bolly warm and willing on twenty quid champagne. He wants to take her somewhere quiet, and kiss her and kiss her until her lips are twice their size, kiss her neck until she’s giddy, kiss her back until she cries. He wants to undress her like one of the bomb boys with a paper parcel full of dynamite—delicate, like she’ll break, like they’ll both blow to pieces if he pushes too hard. He wants to see her twisting naked on his sheets, as full up with pleasure as if he’d spent his whole life just in seeing to her, and only dare to fuck her once she begs and begs and begs.

Coming off feels just like dying, now, and he wonders if it’s better this way, or worse.

**5)**

And then she’s gone. She’s gone, and he’s all alone. Her goodbye is enough, for a while, but every day, he’s less able to remember what she tastes like. He only dreams about her when he’s sleeping, and then she comes to him white and glowing, like an angel, and kisses his forehead, and touches his cheek.

_I was sent here to bring everyone home. To help them to peace. Did you really think I’d forget about you?_

The only thing he wants her to do to him now is to save him.

*

“You’re a bastard, Gene Hunt.”

He jerks up from his desk with a snort, and nearly falls backwards in his chair. DI Alexandra Drake, his late second in command, is looking at him from across his office, with her lips tighter than a virgin’s cunt and her eyebrow up and her nose wrinkling. He’s too out of practice to be sure whether she’s glad to see him, or whether it’s more than a show.

“You, Gene Hunt,” she repeats, leaning forward, palms on his desk, tits shoved out in front of her in a way that just dares him to notice, “are an egomaniacal, selfish, thoughtless, immature _bastard_.”

“Bolly,” he says, in a daze, because it’s the only thing to say. “Alex. I would ask if it’s really you, but nobody else could have that mouth _and_ those legs.”

“I thought,” she says, “that you would be along, presently. I thought you might just need to find someone to take over here, and that you’d be heading off to the reward of all good coppers just as soon as you could. I thought you _weren’t_ just going to leave me to drink alone for all eternity. But it seems, DCI Gene Hunt, grade-A bastard, that I was mistaken.”

“Now hang on,” he says. “When did I ever say...”

“We were a team,” she says, eyes flashing fire. “Did you or did you not tell me that we were a team?”

“We were, Bolls, of course we were, but...”

“And do teams just abandon each other?”

“You were in a better place than...”

“Yes. I was. And tell me, Guv: if one of a pair of coppers is knee-deep in shit, and the bullets are flying, and it’s looking worse for him than it ever has before, and his parner is warm and cozy looking on from somewhere safe, which one of them feels worse, in that moment?”

He opens his mouth, and he closes it again. “Bolly...”

“No,” she says, not amused a bit. “I don’t want to listen to your excuses. Are you going to come quietly, or am I going to have to drag you?”

He laughs, although he knows it’ll make her furious. “I’d give good brass to see you try. Like an ant with an elephant.”

“Ants can lift twenty times their own body weight.”

“Trust you to have a figure quite that useless stuffed inside your head.”

“Gene,” she says, serious now, looking at him like she’s disappointed in him, “come with me.”

“You had everything, Bolly,” he says, looking at her just as hard. “Why would you come back for me?”

“Because you’ve been strutting around in front of me like a man who knows he’s got nothing at all to be ashamed of since the day we met, and frankly, _some_ girls would be inclined to take that as a promise,” she says. He barely stops his jaw from falling, and she smirks with lips, still and always, far too red. “Because you’re completely infuriating, Gene Hunt, and I’ve waited a long time to wipe that smug git grin off your face. Because you’re _mine_ , and I intend to prove it. Because I know you trust me absolutely, and it makes me want to give to you, to be good to you, in ways I don’t even know how to say.” She’s so close now, staring, and he knows she’s reading him easy as a page, and she’s so open herself he doesn’t know how to mind. “Because I need you, Guv. I need you with me. Please.”

He could kiss her, but that would be easy. And if all his years as a copper haven’t taught him the difference between easy and right, then he deserves no better than to rot in hell without her.

“My Bolly,” he says, quiet, and doesn’t touch her, except with his eyes. “That was all you ever had to say.”

She holds out her hand. And he stands up. And he takes it.

“Come on,” she says, and she’s smiling in her own way, and he’s missed that, Christ, so much. He knows, as she smiles at him, that he won’t ever miss it again. “I think, Gene Hunt, that you owe me a drink.”


End file.
